


The Art of Rage

by PetrichorPerfume



Series: The Art of the Fallen [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Archangel Gabriel (Supernatural), Experimental Style, Fallen Angels, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-20 00:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5985685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetrichorPerfume/pseuds/PetrichorPerfume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabriel regrets everything he didn't say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Rage

“You ruined everything!” Bitter taste in the back of his mouth; half-hearted glare; something like pity. “You destroyed Heaven.” Knife drawn; hissing, spitting; the warmth of pure, unbridled _hatred._

 

“You tore apart our family.” Acid tears streaming down his face; pain like a sword twisting through his heart; questioning – _why_? “You aren’t the only one who misses him, _Michael._ ” Needlessly cruel; casually biting; incredibly careless.

 

“I hate you!” Honesty, at last; melancholy disguised as loathing; someone weeping near the throne. “I will make you pay for this, if it’s the last thing I do.” The quietest of words; the sulfuric stench of wrath; broken insanity.

 

“I _told_ you this would happen.” Patronizing, and the last thing any of them had needed; _blame._ “I warned you. You. Didn’t. Listen.” Scathing; acid in Michael’s wounds; righteous.

 

“We were family. You said you loved us. You _promised._ ” Soft; broken; mournful.

 

***

 

Gabriel leaves unnoticed, unmarked, _unmourned_ under the cover of darkness, fleeing from his home – from the place he _used_ to love, from the place that _used_ to be Paradise, from the land that _used_ to be Heaven, in another lifetime – like a thief in the night.

 

For a long time, Gabriel regrets what he didn’t say. _I’m sorry,_ he thinks he should have said. _I’ll be back; I promise,_ he wishes he’d found the mercy in his heart to say.

 

_I will always love you,_ he could have said – should have said, _would_ have said, if he hadn’t been so blindingly, burningly _angry_ – to Michael, to Raphael, to that baby angel who’d spent his days gazing adoringly at him with those deep-ocean blue eyes, to _Lucifer_ before he’d fallen.

 

_Don’t destroy the world while I’m gone,_ is what he should have said, like a nervous parent half-jokingly bidding their children not to burn the house down in their absence.

 

_We’ll fix this, together,_ he regrets not saying as the Apocalypse closes in all around him.

 

In the end, though, gasping and dying in Lucifer’s arms as the blade digs deeper still, the only word he wishes he hadn’t left unspoken is _goodbye._

 


End file.
